


Waving Swords

by NavyGreen



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Bilbo Baggins, Culture Shock, During The Hobbit, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyGreen/pseuds/NavyGreen
Summary: While on the journey to Erebor, Bilbo scolds the boys and learns something new about Dwarves.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin's Company
Comments: 4
Kudos: 143





	Waving Swords

Bilbo complained about his lack of handkerchiefs. He complained about the wind and the miserable rain. He complained about his bedroll and he complained about the ridiculous _three meals a day_.

Honestly, who could live on _three_ meals a day? Certainly not him.

And sometimes, just sometimes, in a humorous tone and his chin tilted upward, he complained about the company.

This was not one of those times.

“Do that one more time young Dwarf!” Bilbo grumbled as he had to duck yet _another_ one of Fili’s blades. Kili, who stood on the other side of the Hobbit, met his brother’s sword with his own with a sharp clang that hurt Bilbo’s ears.

They had been at it all evening. At first, it had been behind him, the boys rolling through the dirt and sprinting between the trees that surrounded him. Then, it had migrated in front of him, and Bilbo could almost say he had enjoyed watching them. It brought forth memories of his mother’s Dwarven stories, or great axes and rhythmic dances/ But now, the boys had decided that, _why, Bilbo would be the best plaything for today as we play with our very sharp, shiny swords._

Kili, Bilbo had been told (and shown on what he considered a few too many occasions to his liking), was more comfortable with a bow than a sword. But not even an Elf could catch a flying arrow – and they were in short supply – and so the two brothers spun and clashed their weapons. With Bilbo right in the middle.

It was a like a game – who could make Bilbo stumble the most, or squeak the most, or flinch the most.

Ridiculous, Bilbo thought. someone could get hurt – he ducked low as Fili’s angular blade swooped overhead. Kili laughed and sunk his own sword into the dirt by Bilbo’s right heel. _He could get hurt!_

“Enough!”

Ahead of him, the line of the Company paused, and one by one they turned to look at him. The brothers, at least, had stilled with their weapons held high.

Bilbo turned up his chin and waved his finger in Fili’s face – Kili was too far away. “I have had enough of this ducking and weaving! If you wish to playfight then do it somewhere else!”

Fili blinked. Then blinked again. “What,” he began. “Don’t Hobbits test their skills on the road?”

Bilbo had snatched the prince’s sword before he had blinked again. “No, we don’t! We don’t go out on the road, and we don’t wave weapons around in case someone gets hurt!”

Fili mumbled, “My sword,” just as Kili said “But Mister Boggins-”

Bilbo turned on him, Fili’s blade pointed to the dirt because he a _civilised Hobbit thank you very much._ “Baggins!” he yelled, and snatched Kili’s sword too.

The two princes stared at him, twin eyes blinking like owls.

Bilbo waved the hand holding Kili’s smaller blade, making sure its point was off to the side, before ordering; “Go! Collect firewood – or do something useful that _isn’t_ almost kill me!”

The princes shot off without a second thought, weaving around Dwalin and rushing into the trees surrounding them. Branches cracked and one of the boys swore – how two young Dwarves managed to be so loud, Bilbo would never know.

He huffed, nose wrinkled, and turned back to the path.

It was at that moment that Bilbo released the eyes upon him. Some blank, some humorous, some brooding – always, always brooding. The Hobbit glared back; he didn’t need their scolding. And he didn’t need their bullying.

“It’s getting dark,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel, though he felt its uneven edge. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should set up camp.”

And there they stood. Dwarves and Hobbit. Silence stretched between them, sliding up his arms and raising his hairs. But Bilbo was a Baggins, and they did not step down. Especially when disciplining children that shouldn’t be waving something they shouldn’t.

“Well…” Bilbo offered. Something was gathering in this throat, something thick and slimy.

Balin stepped forward, hands tucked into his sleeves. “Yes, Mister Baggins,” he said, ever the diplomat. “I do believe setting up camp would be for the best.”

And just like that, the spell was broken, and the Dwarves all went their own way to set up camp. Bombour began to pull out his cooking equipment. Ori sat against a tree and was no doubt drafting another entry for his records. Oin wandered into a patch of small, stout plants and began plucking them.

Bilbo stood. His breath left him uneven and shaky. Balin was walking towards him.

“Here,” the Hobbit mumbled, pushing the Princes’ swords into the Dwarf’s hands.

Then, Bilbo turned on his heel and walked into the trees.

The Hobbit found himself sitting upon a rock, head in his hands and eyes wet.

Was he to always be a plaything? Something to be laughed at? Next, they would throw him into a lake and watch him sink – he was sure of it.

A familiar feeling of sickness came to him, settled around him like his mother’s blankets all the way back home, hidden under the hills of the Shire. He missed Bag End – as empty and lonely as was.

Better ridiculed in the Shire than be a chew toy for Dwarves. Hobbits could only hurt you with gossip and words. Dwarves could do much, much worse.

A crack sounded in his little grove, and Bilbo wondered once more how the Dwarves could be so loud.

Which one could it be? Dwalin, come to yell at him? Ori, coming to ask him why his kind were so soft and un-Dwarf like? Perhaps it was Bombour, to tell him dinner was ready? Though Bilbo highly doubted it had been that long.

“What’s troubling you now, laddie?”

Bilbo could almost cry in relief. He turned and smiled. “Bofur.”

The Dwarf walked the remaining distance between them and sat beside him. “Walking off like that into woods like these isn’t safe, laddie.”

“I have Sting,” Bilbo replied, patting his side – only to find it empty of a cool, Elvish Blade.

Bofur chucked, and his hat slid sideways on his head. “No, Balin has Sting. You left it behind.”

Bilbo felt a rush of air leave him. Of course he would leave his only weapon behind, right after scolding Fili and Kili about _safety_. Yavanna save him.

A new wave of wetness touched his eyes, and he blinked it away. “Sorry I’m so useless,” he mumbled.

Bofur’s voice turned soft. “Oh Mister Baggins, you aren’t useless. You scolded the princes-”

“And now everyone’s mad at me!”

The Dwarf paused for a moment, before pulling a wide grin and chuckling. “Oh no, Mister Baggins. Surprised, yes, certainly. But mad, of course not. Thorin’s nephews can be childish – they don’t know the true dangers of the road. And not one of us was willing to tell them off for it – what is a toymaker to a prince?”

Bilbo stared at Bofur, watched him recentre his hat and fiddle with his moustache. A toymaker – he had not known that. To think of it – he did not know what many of the Dwarves did before the journey – except brood, of course.

“And we saw the boys testing you, getting too tricky for someone as inexperienced as yourself. Leaning into dangerous territory, it did. Balin was just about ready to stop them - but here you come in, wiggling your finger and setting them as straight as mithril rods.” Bofur laughed then. “I’ve never seen such a shocked look on their faces!”

Bilbo felt his cheeks flush. Heat dipped down his neck. “I was too harsh on them-”

“Just harsh enough!” Bofur interrupted and placed a warm, gloved hand on his shoulder.

Bilbo sighed, but he felt something tight in him unravel, ever so slightly. Like a yarn ball wound too firmly. Or a pie set on the windowsill for too long and gone dry. His feet settled into the cool grass around him. He felt weighted, again. Rooted.

“What were they doing, anyway?” he asked, and after a short pause added, “besides trying to kill me.”

Bofur glanced back towards the direction of the camp. A beam of late evening light angled across his legs. “Us Dwarves have to always be ready for a fight, no? Have to be on guard, have to be as ready as an unfinished axe is for firing.”

Bilbo nodded slowly with a slight squint.

“Fili and Kili were doing just that, except that had pulled you into it without asking – which isn’t a big offence to a Dwarf, but you’re so… unskilled, Mister Baggins.”

The Hobbit nodded, feeling no familiar prick of a jab or insult in his chest. Not with Bofur. He was the closest thing he had to a friend. “So they were-”

“Training with you,” Bofur said. “And might I say, Mister Baggins, you have almost better reflexes than the best of us.”

Bilbo glanced down at his feet. He would have to comb and wash them sometime soon, he thought with a grimace. No respectable Hobbit let his foot hair be clumped with grime. But, then again, no respectable Hobbit would leave the Shire to go on an _adventure_.

And yet here he was. With _better_ reflexes than battle-hardened Dwarves.

“The threat of injury definitely helped,” the Hobbit mumbled.

Bofur smiled and stood. “It certainly does. Let’s return to camp. I can smell soup.”

Bilbo wiggled his nose and sniffed. The Dwarf was right – potatoes and something bitter. Perhaps a herb they found on the road? He hoped there’d be enough for seconds. Even thirds.

Bofur walked towards the fire’s glow, flickering through the trees, and the Hobbit stood to follow.

Bilbo was just settling down for a good night’s rest – or as good as one could get on a hard dirt floor and a half-empty belly (there had not been enough for thirds) – when two bodies dropped down either side of his bedroll. The Hobbit eyed Sting in its sheath, but a blue glow did not emerge.

“Mister Boggins-” one voice began.

“Baggins!” another whispered in response.

Bilbo could have groaned. His back, his mind, and his stomach were not in the mood to be jolted around again. All three of them ached, dimly, but enough to unroot him and set an uncomfortable feeling in his muscles.

Kili whispered to him from his right. “Right, sorry Mister Baggins. But were here to-”

“Apologise,” Fili added from the left. “For pulling you into reflex training.”

“Balin said Hobbits don’t have reflexive training-”

“Or any sort of training-”

“So we must’ve scared you-”

“I thought you were going to kill me!” Bilbo whispered through his teeth.

Kili’s voice came softer, like a whine from a puppy kicked. “We’re sorry Mister Baggins. We didn’t know.”

“We did wonder why you hadn’t pulled Sting and turned to scales onto one of us,” Fili mumbled.

“That’s how the game goes, Mister Baggins,” Kili murmured.

“We weren’t going to hurt you,” Fili added. “Could never. You’re part of the company now!”

From the other side of the camp, Dwalin grunted at them in warning. Fili rolled onto his side and shuffled closer to the Hobbit. Bilbo could see his face now, in the dim light of the dying campfire. It reminded him of his Baggins cousins, caught red handing stealing from Farmer Maggot with their Took companions.

“We won’t do it again,” he whispered.

“Unless you want us to?” Kili suggested, with a hint of hope.

Bilbo stared up at the sky through the canopy of leaves. They swayed, hiding the stars from view only to reveal them once more; like a game of Peek-a-Boo. The crackling of the fire – quiet and weakening – lulled him towards the comfortable darkness of sleep.

“Warn me next time,” he mumbled softly.

Twin hands hit Bilbo’s shoulders, jolting him violently, before their bodies disappeared from his sides. He watched through half-closed lids as two dark shapes stumbled and – ever, ever so loud – found their own bedrolls.

Thank Yavanna for that, he thought, but the words were distant even to his own mind.

Without the bodies to shield him, the cold night’s wing wiggled into his bedroll and sent his toes curling. Not much he could do about that, anymore.

Curled tight in his bedroll, with the rough fabric pulled close to his cheeks, the Hobbit fell asleep under the stars, and while he still wished for home, he felt his roots with the Company deepen.


End file.
